


i've never been skateboarding

by hiraeth (friendlyneighborhoodpetrichor)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Skateboarding, THIS IS A POEM, however you'd like to look at it, no beta we die like men, or memoir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:29:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlyneighborhoodpetrichor/pseuds/hiraeth
Summary: i can't have this pseud be naked any longer, can i ?a sloppy memoir written during the better time of summer and golden light
Kudos: 1





	1. i've never been skateboarding part 1

part 1

\--

i’m squinting as the sun flashes and dances in front of my eyes, fickle rays pirouetting and leaping like a bold, brazen ballerina

not unlike myself and i’m currently losing every bit of the carefully curated balance i’ve worked tirelessly to develop through years of practice

but it’s melting away like the makeup my sister caked on my face as part of an experiment that took too long and cost me precious golden light

which i was so insistent on catching before it fades, determined to feel like a character in a coming-of-age movie like the one shot in my suburb nearly a decade ago

but that is irrelevant everything is irrelevant now and i need to call on the focus that worms and squirms out of my grasp

every time every time i try to put my mind to something every time i attempt to narrow down my stream of consciousness

every time i- i’m doing it again i’m getting off topic and i’m going to crash and fall again but this time physically

as i’m wobbling and teetering on the edge of colliding with pavement and getting gravel stuck in the fold of my elbow

and hopefully not bleeding (that’d be terribly inconvenient) but possibly succeeding at something so trivial yet so uplifting

and yes, the forgotten sun still beats down on my face and the top of my head that will no doubt have a searing pink line of sunburn in an hour

but it doesn’t matter, nothing really matters except the CAR that nearly clips my shoulder as i teeter and rock back and forth

nearly spilling off the sidewalk in a tangle of lengthy limbs that are too long for their own good and contribute to their fair share of clumsy mistakes

and my foot nearly clips a wheel and i narrowly avoid a nasty tumble barely managing to stay upright with an accidental jump (so cool, if anyone was watching)

but i really don’t look that cool and no one is watching on the quiet street i walk down daily which i guess i’m thankful for, blushing and adjusting my shirt even though there are no

eyes staring at my descent down the slight and slightly terrifying slope and my music, i forgot to mention, is reaching a crescendo as i plummet

and i feel myself coming to a stop at the bottom against the climax of notes because i’m tired, i’m exhausted, and i swore i would try something new

but riding on a skateboard is so difficult and so hard- i really should just stick to dancing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part 2 , to anyone who stumbles upon this , enjoy

part 2

\--

i prefer fiction to facts, reading fantasy novels and creative writing over research papers and reports-

so why can i never seem to write something with no semblance of truth whatsoever?

i feel compelled to imbue my words and phrases and run-on sentences with elements of “me”,

sometimes fictional themselves to create a  _ better version of myself _ . 

i take my traits and quirks and infuse them with the hopes and dreams and random tidbits i create when i’m rinsing my hair in the shower, walking down the street listening to my favorite song, staring at the cursor blinking on my dying computer screen.

maybe i craft an imaginary persona to hide behind in my writing,

dramatic but not theatrical, confident but not arrogant, interesting and substantive and just a “more” of a person, larger than life.

and then there’s the experiences, the constant draw and pull to write excitement, exhilaration, exaggeration of the everyday occurrences that consume my thoughts and memories.

why can i never seem to separate fact and fiction when i lay my fingers on a keyboard or press pencil to paper? why do i desire so badly to be this compelling main character that i’ve created through my scribbles and drafts and half-polished prose?

i’ve never been skateboarding before, but my main character has, and she may not be the best at it but she loves it and it fits her and it doesn’t matter that this experience is nothing more than messy fiction and this messy poem and a manufactured memory-

i guess some fiction is fact, fact is fiction.


End file.
